


VIP

by sirnando



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 19:28:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3861958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirnando/pseuds/sirnando
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James loves writing and Cristiano loves football, but they might have a similar interest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	VIP

James wouldn't call himself "unpopular", that was such a harsh term. Though he wouldn't place his scrawny, 100 pound body into the popular group either. That would be too far of a stretch.

 

So he proudly placed himself in the forsaken "between". It was safe, it was modest, it was James.

 

Therefore his designated place became the newspaper room. The reporter who constantly had ink stains on the pads of his fingers. Messy hair, big glasses, pencil behind his ear. But it wasn't some nerdy thing. It was a James thing.

 

And there was only one James after all.

~

Cristiano was somewhat of a prodigy. Or that’s what people called him, he didn’t label himself that of course.

 

He wasn’t sure how it happened, Guessed it might’ve started somewhere in the ninth grade when he made the varsity football team. Because, usually, ninth graders were prohibited a spot on any other team besides freshman, but the coach had decided he was so “talented it’d be a sin not to let him.” And that’s how he ended up with the 12th graders, and then ended up being their captain in tenth.

 

He transcended into a symbol, the thing to be talking about and the person to be talking to. That’s how he found himself surrounded by kids from all grades, girls from all grades. Talking and laughing and pushing one another just to get the seat next to him, putting their hands out defensively if someone got too close because “he needs his personal space fuck off” or “if something happens to his leg, you’re screwed. The team’ll kill you”. And it went on and on and on until it reached the point of nicknames like “Golden Legs” or “Fancy Feet”.

 

He stayed modest of course (or so he called himself modest), but when he reached 12th grade that turned into a little more ego. He grew in height and muscle, his voice shed its chipmunk faze and acne never seemed to affect him. The earrings and hair gel were just accessories, not necessary, but he never minded the attention they attracted.

He still smiled and talked nicely, he just started being more critical of who he talked to. Nothing personal, but the captain of the football team for three years couldn’t exactly be seen with just anyone.

 

He didn’t see himself as popular (underestimated it of course), but not unpopular. Right in the middle, a perfect balance.

 

Because he was original of course.

~

James liked sticking to the politics side of things. Yes, of course, things were supposed to be neutral, no one was assigned a certain category. “We’re not a professional newspaper, you can’t be writing for one topic. Be fair.” was the editor in chief’s response to James’ meek request. But luckily, the club sponsor was his Gov teacher, and he had no issue with waving his hand at the bias.

 

So James ended up writing mostly politics, sometimes throwing in a piece about food or school issues, just so the kid wouldn’t get suspicious.

So when the guy who wrote for the sports section (the editor was dating him, so he got special treatment) broke three fingers, James was surprised that he was approached to take over for the 2-3 weeks that he’d be healing.

 

He was unsure, sports- sports weren’t his thing. He’d tried football once, rolled his ankle and broke his glasses so it ended. He loved staying away from sports, that was his personal connection to them. But he didn’t get much of a choice either because the editor slapped him and said thanks. “You’ll do great.”

 

So James was left straggling. He didn’t know the last thing about sports, let alone football which everyone seemed to always talk about. But pleading didn’t seem an option.

~

 

If you walked through the halls, there was a 98% chance that one of the conversations consisted of something Cristiano related. Except of course, when Cris himself was walking by. Because then, magically, people forgot their words and waved crazily and threw hi's in his direction. Some people ran up and started speaking to him as if they'd known each other since elementary school. But the truth was either: a) Cristiano had stumbled upon them once or twice at school or in class or b) he'd never seen them before.

 

He never mentioned it, that'd be rude, but his friends would sometimes smirk at the 'fans' as they called it, or scowled because they were the ones pushed away to make room.

 

His friends also had to learn to make sacrifices. They were not the center of attention when Cris was around. They were the second ring around the center of attention, the ring you relied on when the main attraction was unavailable. They were the clam and Cris the pearl- admired but, not a pearl. They'd never be pearls.

 

It was ok though, they were always first pick of the leftovers Cristiano had. It was something.

 

They also lacked in brains compared to Cristiano. Because they were regular old jocks, but Cris- Cris had promised his mother that he'd do anything for her which included good grades, if he could play football. So he kept them up, unlike them.

 

It was effortless really, all subjects were easy and he even took AP math without any difficulties. Sometimes he'd mention it, he was proud that he could balance both, but people seemed to turn uncomfortable when he brought it up.

 

~

 

See usually James did his writing in the confines of his room because the topic consisted of researching on the Internet or reading newspapers. He never had to go out and .... And- talk to people. Never had to interview.

 

He asked if he could do worldwide sports. Not local. But the editor laughed and claimed it'd be crime to omit the school sports when it was on such a level.

 

James didn't get the big deal. But he grabbed his pen and paper and shoved his own butt into the field.

 

It was split, one side practicing lacrosse and the other football. So he went over to the lacrosse side because the ball was smaller and they were wearing helmets so you'd think they were more careful.

 

They weren't. He had to dodge that flying rock like ten times and the eleventh time was when the coach noticed him standing there on shuffling feet, pen between his teeth. He asked "what the hell was the matter" and James explained he had to write about the sports teams. He was filling in.

 

"The newspaper and lacrosse? They've never mentioned us before. Always over on the other side with that damned football." He smiled though and James smiled back.

 

"Oh then I'll go over there. Thanks." And for some reason the coach began frowning and went off muttering under his breath.

 

~

 

See for some reason, the footballers were ten times more intimidating than the rock-throwers. James didn't know I why but.

 

It was also less interesting. All they did was run around cones and run laps and then run cones and then do some push ups. And then the colorful guy in the net kept flinging himself to the ground.

 

The only time it might've gotten slightly more engaging was when they started kicking balls into nets. It was quite impressive, the angles they could kick at and somehow the ball always ended up in the goal.

 

One guy in particular, whose thighs were probably bigger than James' whole body, was most impressive. Show off of course because he shot from the longest distances and sharpest angles, but it was pretty amazing nevertheless.

 

But even with all of this, James didn't have the slightest idea what to write about. Kicking balls wasn't exactly stellar material.

 

Coach called them over after a while, said they were gonna 'scrimmage' or whatever and they started playing a game. So James perked up and hoped that one of them would get injured so he could interview them. That would definitely get some reads.

 

None of them got injured. Although at one point during their game Thunder Thigh kicked from a sharper angle than he could handle and the ball came flying into James' face. Of course.

 

It stung. And had enough force to push him backwards into the grass. His pen was still dangling from his mouth, brushing off his glasses that had fell off (but didn't break) when Thigh ran over to retrieve the ball. 

 

"Fuck, sorry." He said and pulled James up. James flew up, Thigh had underestimated his strength. 

 

"It's fine." James said, rubbing the spot on his cheek.

 

"I'm just not used to having my interviewers so close to the sideline." Thigh laughed and James smiled weakly. 

 

He opened his mouth to say something, but Thigh had ran back off.

 

James knew what he'd write about; the mph of footballs.

 

~

 

He didn't write about the speed of the of football because the editor yelled at him and claimed that was probably the worst idea ever.

 

So James climbed back into his shell and ended up at square one. He decided to try again.

 

He came a little earlier this time, just to see if maybe something more interesting happened at the beginning.

 

It didn't. The only addition was Thunder Thigh showing off how far he can stretch them. How effortless it is.

 

But James stayed for the rest. Dodged balls this time and chewed the eraser off his pencil. Midway through the game Thigh ran over to where James was standing and asked for water.

 

"Water?"

 

"Uh, yeah." He motioned to the area around James. James found himself surrounded by water bottles.

 

"Oh." He leaned down to pick one up and handed it over. Thigh eyed him oddly.

 

"That's not mine."

 

"Oh. R-right." Thigh pointed to his, James retrieved it.

 

"Get any good material?" He asked after squirting the water over his face. James shook his head.

 

"Keep watching me, you'll get something eventually." He smiled and ran off.

 

James was confused and still article-less.

 

~

 

He didn't mention anything to the editor. He just decided he'd try one more time and if not then he was moving on to another sport.

 

He got nothing.

 

So he moved over to the field where lacrosse was playing on the fourth day. He was overwhelmed with the amount of enthusiasm the players gave him.

 

They were all willing to be interviewed, all willing to tell funny stories and give ratings of other county teams, to gossip and to blame.

 

And that's how James ended up with a one and a half page article on lacrosse.

 

"It wasn't football," the editor claimed, "but nicely written so it'll do."

 

James smiled triumphantly.

 

~

 

James usually sat with a small group of friends at lunch. They hated being the center of attention, so their table was far off in the corner hidden behind some pillars. That's why Cristiano had a hard time finding him.

 

It was a surprise to see Thigh sitting by him, but not as big of a shock as it was to his friends.

 

"I didn't see you at practice yesterday?" Thigh asked and James shrugged.

 

"I wasn't getting any material, so I had to move on."

 

"Move on?"

 

"Uh, yeah. To lacrosse."

 

Thigh's eyes widened. "Lacrosse? No no no. They can't be interviewed. They're not as good as us."

 

"But they like talking."

 

"We like talking too! Listen up, come to our game tomorrow and I promise you'll have something to write, ok?"

 

"I don't know-"

 

"Great. Say you know me to get in for free. Show them this." He grabbed his pen and wrote some numbers on James' palm. James didn't have time to object.

 

When he turned back to his friends, their mouths were agape.

 

"What?"

 

"That- th- do you know who that was? Sitting here? Talking to us?"

 

"Some footballer with big thighs. I never really caught his name."

 

"That was Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos fucking Aveiro! Don't you know anything?" One of them yelled. James guessed 'fucking' wasn't actually a part of his name.

 

"Oh." He still didn't understand the big deal. But they dropped it, yet their eyes never returned to their normal size.

 

~

 

He really should not have been going to this game. He had homework to do and tests to study for. But he went in hopes of maybe getting material. Plus he knew this football stuff was popular and apparently this 'Cristiano' guy was a big deal so whatever.

 

He walked right in before one of the guards caught him.

 

"Ticket."

 

"Oh. Oh I know Cristiano Ronaldo. I can come in." He didn't understand why the guard laughed.

 

"Yeah, we all know Mr. Ronaldo. Now ticket."

 

"No but- but really I can come in. He said so yesterday. Look, he even said to show you this-" he pulled back the sleeve of his sweatshirt and turned his palm up. The number was slightly smudged but still visible.

 

The guard laughed even harder. "Son, I'm pretty sure that's just a regular old cell number and not some secret code. Ya still gotta pay." And he pushed a confused James to the side to make room for the line behind him.

 

Cell number? What the hell had that got to do with getting into the game? Was he supposed to call him and give it to the guard?

 

But he didn't have time anymore, so he dug in his pockets for change and got his ticket, heard the guard still chuckling after he walked in.

 

~

 

It was obviously not a nice pitch like the ones on TV when his dad watched. Everything was leveled and pretty up close so he squeezed himself between an old lady and a strict looking dad in the front row. He was a journalist after all, he had to get up close and personal.

 

The players ran onto the grass, did whatever and then ended up in their spots. James spotted Cristiano, who waved to him so he waved back.

 

About five girls behind him started screaming that "he waved to me". So James felt foolish that he thought Cristiano was directing it to him.

 

It wasn't as action filled as James was expected to believe, but then again he still didn't like the sport. People screamed too loud when Cristiano got near the goal or shot at it. Whistled too long if some opposing red player had the ball at his feet. And some people fell off the bleachers when Cristiano scored. It was overall chaotic.

 

He decided he'd just write a short thing about the culture of the fans and the two goals that won the game. But Cristiano had other ideas and ran over to him after the game, dragged James over to where the players were cooling off and laughing.

 

"Did you get anything good?" Cristiano asked while they were nearing.

 

"Sort of," James shrugged.

 

“Well then, you have permission to ask them all the questions you want. You’ll be our personal reporter, yeah?”

 

And James ‘yeah’d’ along unenthusiastically, but asked questions nevertheless. They weren’t as funny or descriptive as lacrosse, but they were much more dramatic and competitive. Which drama wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. So he smiled and wrote down everything they spat at him, besides the profanity, and got water spilled on him a few times because that’s what they did when they were ‘happy’. Cristiano stayed on the side watching and smiling.

 

After James had finished, Cristiano walked him over to his car. “The star has nothing to say?” James asked and Cristiano shook his head.

 

“Nothing everyone doesn’t already know. Or will know tomorrow morning. I’ll give them a chance for some light.” he smiled with his teeth, James turned a little red.

 

“Ok- ok well I’ll go then. I’ll write the article tomorrow morning.” He got into his car, Cristiano was holding the door open. “Oh-” he leaned out again, “the number thing didn’t work? I had to buy my own ticket.”

 

“It didn’t? It usually does.”

 

James shrugged. “Not for me.”

 

“Ok, I’ll fix it for next time.” and he slammed the door shut.

 

~

 

The next week James’ article became a hit. His editor couldn’t believe he’d gotten that far into the pitch, got so many secrets out. “It’s incredible and original and you’re doing it again.” So James did it again. Ended up at practice.

 

Except this time instead of standing alone on the sidelines, he ended up sitting on the bench with the coach or following him around while he monitored progress. “But no interviewing while they’re working. Only afterwards or during breaks.” So James obeyed and walked around quietly, observed details to see if he could create them into some piece. Cristiano always stayed nearby, whispered rumors to James sometimes and always got in trouble for it, but it didn’t seem he cared much.

 

One time after practice, he ran over to James who was interviewing one of the central defenders, asking if he ever took full blame for conceding a goal (he didn’t of course). “I need to borrow James for a second,” and he tugged him away.

 

It wasn’t anything major, but James was surprised because it had almost been two weeks and he’d never formally introduced himself as James. “Wait how do you know my name?”

 

Cristiano shrugged. “You tend to just know important people’s names.” But James had never considered himself important per say.

 

“Anyways,” he continued, “our game is tomorrow. Against our biggest rival and not only will you have a shit load to write about, I’m inviting you to come to our team ‘dinner’ afterwards.”

 

“But what’s there to write at a team dinner?”

 

“No no no. Not as a reporter. Just because, as a member of the team. It’ll be fun, I swear.”

 

“I don’t know, I don’t want to intrude.” James shook his head, pushed his glasses up further. See, by being in the middle of popular and unpopular, you never tended to be invited to a lot of outside events.

 

“You’re coming, whether you want to or not. You deserve it after cramping your hand up so many times for us.”

 

“My hand never cramps.”

 

“You can come in my car.”

 

~

 

They won against the rival. Cristiano scored the winner. Everyone screamed and cried. James got drenched in more water. It was - fun almost. He found himself laughing and smiling with the others, Cristiano’s hands kept either slapping his shoulder or squeezing his side. And James felt even nicer. Like more- as if he belonged in the crowd of sweaty bodies and Gatorade and floating articles of clothing. Better than his journalist group which was something because he never thought it got better than getting excited over colorful pens and smoother paper.

 

The team ‘dinner’ consisted of them going to the closest restaurant/bar and taking up half the seats. People piled into cars, sat on one another’s laps, sat on tables and ordered every item on the menu. James kept laughing for some reason. Got chicken wing stains on his shirt, Pepsi stains on his pants and his glasses got lost somewhere along the way but he was so caught up in the constant wave of movement and noise, he didn’t notice they were gone. People became fuzzier and more distant, but it never registered in his mind completely.

 

The one constant in this crowd of chaos was Cristiano. Who was always by his side. When called over by someone, he always shook his head no and claimed he had to keep James from getting lost since he was so new to all this. But James seemed fine, kept running around to different people, stealing food, laughing hysterically on people’s laps. Cristiano insisted.

 

Only after the crazy cooled down, did James start panicking because it was one in the morning and he had to get home but he couldn’t see and he had no idea anymore if he’d taken his car or came with someone and how was he supposed to get home? He didn’t even know where they were?

 

He ran around for a few seconds before running into a wall. A wall which was much warmer than he would’ve expected and had hands that were touching him what the fu-

 

“I think it’s time to take you home, huh?” He calmed down when he heard Cristiano’s voice. Looked up to see a blurry silhouette of him. 

 

“Yeah, I think so.” He mumbled and crashed, exhausted, into Cristiano’s arms.

 

~

 

He helped as much as he could with his noodle feet when they walked to Cristiano’s car. Though Cristiano had to do most of the work for him. He fixed his position in the passenger seat, rubbed his eyes and his head lolled to his the side. It was hot. So hot, holy shit so he blasted the A/C as hard as it could go. And even then it wasn’t strong enough so he kept twisting it to the side harder and harder, but it wouldn’t budge so he started swearing the name of whatever “fucking bastard made this hell hole of a burning car”, still not stopping his persistent turning. Until Cristiano grabbed his hand and pulled it away.

 

“You’re gonna fuck up my car.” He laughed lightly, James sighed loudly and flung his chair backwards.

 

Cristiano eyed his outstretched body for a few seconds. James lifted his shirt and began fanning himself, complaining about something under his breath.

 

He was much more toned than Cristiano had imagined. Much more. And it was- nice. Firm. But how firm? So he stretched his hand out to check it out and- he panicked. Slapped the hand on James’ thigh instead. “Get up. I’m not driving with you all the way over there.”

 

James grumbled but obeyed, flattened down his messy hair as well as he could and Cristiano drove off. James fell asleep and fell onto Cristiano’s shoulder.

 

~

 

He was grim the next morning. As grim as everyone else was, besides Cristiano of course.

 

“How are you not tired?” James asked. Cristiano was running sprints. He stopped midway to greet James, whose eyes had bags and his hair didn’t look any better than yesterday. His glasses were back on his nose.

 

“Where’d you find them?” He asked and pointed.

 

James yawned. “I have an extra pair at home. Mom didn’t even notice.”

 

“Aha-” he was gonna say something else but coach called them over. James decided today would be one of those days where he sat on the bench.

 

~

 

After practice, Cristiano was nominated to be the one to take all the supplies back into the storage room. James volunteered to help.

 

“You look like shit. I can do it myself.”

 

“I always look like shit.”

 

“Not necessarily.” Cristiano mumbled and James looked up for a second, the glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, but Cristiano had no reaction or response.

 

It was a long walk to the room, much longer than James had expected so on the second run he stacked as many things onto his body as was physically possible.

 

Cristiano laughed at him, told him it was a bad idea but James disagreed until he fell.

 

“Great.” He spat and started gathering the things back up. Cristiano set his own down and helped.

 

On the third walk, Cristiano got an idea. “Shoot.”

 

“What?”

 

“Shoot. Make a shot at goal.” He smiled and motioned towards the balls.

 

“No. No way in hell I suck.”

 

“Oh c’mon. You can’t be that bad. I’ll demonstrate, come.”

 

He took one of the balls and positioned it a few feet from the goal. Walked back, ran forward, kicked and the ball shot into the back of the net. James watched nervously.

 

Cristiano retrieved the ball, placed it back and ran to James, dragged him by the hand to where he was standing before.

 

“Just do it. It’ll be good.”

 

“I don’t know Cris-”

 

“Look,” James stiffened when Cristiano’s hands ended up on his waist. There were some places where there was no fabric barrier between finger and skin. “turn this way,” he moved him slightly, “walk back, run over and kick it. Yeah?”

 

So James did what he was told and the ball ended up going over the bar.

 

“Not horrible.” Cristiano laughed, James clenched his teeth in embarrassment. “Try again.” He positioned him again and this time the ball hit the side post. “Better. Now go get it and try again.”

 

James ran over for the ball. Put it down. And waited for Cristiano’s hands on his hips, showing him the direction. When it didn’t happen, he turned around to Cristiano’s crossed arms and expectant face.

 

“Well, go on.”

 

“Um- what- can you show me the position again?” he muttered.

 

Cristiano brightened. Ran over and accidentally lifted up more of his shirt. His whole palms enveloped James’ hips now.

 

“There.” he said after getting him into place. His hands lingered, James waited patiently and leaned a little back.

 

And then Cris let go and he kicked and the ball ended up in the net. Almost exactly where Cristiano’s had landed.

 

“You should join.” Cristiano said after they’d finished cleaning everything up.

 

“No way. That was luck.”

 

“You’d improve.”

 

“It’d take forever.”

 

“I’d teach you.”

 

James eyed him for a moment. “Then maybe.”

 

~

 

James grew more popular at school. His articles became hits. Never before in the history of all the journalists had one of them been able to extract such juicy details about the football team. It was drama and humor and rivalry and everyone ate it up. Yelled good job to him in the hallways. Some screamed he should become the permanent sports writer.

 

And then the three weeks ended. And the original director of sports writing returned. He didn’t get as big of a welcome as he had expected. James didn’t dare say anything.

 

On Friday during practice, James brought his last piece of paper and last pen, followed coach around and wrote down every detail he could think of or see. The players were willing to be even more thorough. They didn’t like the idea of him leaving either. Cristiano stayed away for the first time.

 

After practice finished, the squirted an extra amount of water onto him. Picked him up onto their shoulders and cried for dear life but they all laughed. He was to come to their next game, that would be his official last game. They refused to acknowledge the previous one. 

 

So James gathered his belongings and said one more bye to everyone before noticing that Cristiano was gone.

 

“The locker room. Shower.” Someone told him, so he ran over to the school. It was weird. He would’ve expected Cristiano to be the first to say goodbye.

 

~

 

It wasn’t hard to find him. He was in his underwear by his locker. Gelling back his hair, getting dressed.

 

“I was saying bye to everyone, why did you ditch?”

 

Cris shrugged, didn’t turn around.

 

“Hello? It was my last training and this is when you decide to be an asshole?”

 

Nothing. So he approached him, “Cristiano for fucks sake just say bye at least?” and grabbed his shoulder to turn him around.

 

Cristiano turned around, cupped James’ cheek in his palm and kissed him.

 

James pulled away after a few seconds, eyes wide open, glasses slid down to the tip of his nose. “Um-” but Cristiano wiped his lips and left, pulling on his shirt while walking.

 

~

 

The game was on Tuesday. They had three days to figure it out. But the problem was, was that they weren’t sure what to figure out.

 

James liked and and Cristiano liked it but neither of them really knew how- it- would work when James was now out of a job and they barely saw one another outside of it.

 

So James did what he knew best, he thought. And on Monday he acted and on Tuesday he delivered.

 

~

 

The usual sports guy was surprised to see James at the game. “You don’t have to worry yourself anymore?” But James shrugged and sat down in his usual spot. Front and center.

 

Yet he didn’t know if Cris saw him that time. It seemed he didn’t see much that match. His shots missed and his passes were off. He swore more, his teammates rolled their eyes more. They won but it was a gross win. James found himself grimacing after it, the usual sports guy had two lines written on his paper.

 

James didn’t know if it was appropriate for him to run over to the bench anymore, but he did. And Cristiano was gone already. So he talked for a few moments and got his directions.

 

~

 

From where his car was parked, Cristiano saw the team laughing and hugging someone. He didn’t care though. He’d find out tomorrow probably and even then it was probably pathetic. He threw his stuff in the back, ripped his cleats off carelessly. He was sweaty and mad and goal-less which was worse than every shit thing combined except maybe one.

 

And then someone tapped his shoulder before he got into his car. He wasn’t in the mood. He didn’t want to talk he-

 

“What the fuck do you want?” He spun around angrily, eyes rolling back.

 

James put his hands up defensively. “Hey hey hey. That’s not how to fucking treat your permanent team journalist.”

 

Cris was confused. “The dude came back though.”

 

“Yeah and the substitute dude convinced his boss to trade places. So I’m kind of a big deal now.”

 

Cristiano laughed exasperated. “They let you?”

 

“How couldn’t they?”

 

Cristiano laughed again. James smiled, cheeks filled with red.

 

“I’d give you a good job kiss after your game, but you didn’t do too much of a good job today. But- I did a good job so maybe I should get rewarded?” And Cristiano didn’t stop laughing, just pulled him into the car.

 

~

 

If you went to any of their home games, there was a little card taped to the bleacher closest and most center-placed. It wrote ‘reserved for journalists’ which was ironic because there was only one journalist, but Cristiano had insisted that James write plural so his ego wouldn’t get inflated too high.

 

And James got his own little pass. Free entrance, because he was kind of a big deal. It even had his special code written on it, just to make sure no guard mistaked him for some crazy fan who claimed to know Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro.

 

Because, trust him, he knew Cristiano. Much better and more detailed than anyone else.


End file.
